


Five Times Harry Drank On The Clock

by CowboyBootsAndHuntersHelper



Series: Five Times 'Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror!Draco, Co-workers, F/M, Five Times, M/M, auror!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CowboyBootsAndHuntersHelper/pseuds/CowboyBootsAndHuntersHelper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry tries to be the paragon of proper performance within the Auror Department, but after his promotion to Head Auror, complete with new partner, he finds that a bit... tricky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exasperation

**Author's Note:**

> Orignally posted on ff.net under Seiharu85. Yes, I'm the same person. Story is compliant through most of the epilogue, meaning I have changed only some names, ages, and numbers of children.

**_London - 2007_ **

Groaning with exasperation, Harry plunks down behind his oak desk. He reaches to the back of the bottom right hand drawer, pulling out his carefully stashed bottle of Ogden's Finest.

"It couldn't have been that bad," Ron comments dryly, leaning back in the plaid and polka-dotted armchair he had transfigured from one of Harry's more atrocious office warming gifts.

"It's a death sentence." Harry bites back, and Ron rolls is eyes in exasperation.

"So what if Kingsley decided your new position was coming with a new partner? You should be celebrating the fact that you're Head Auror now, instead of griping about how you won't be able to make my life hell during those 24/7 stakeouts anymore," Ron ends with a laugh, ignoring the dirty look shot to him from behind the heavy desk.

"You haven't heard the whole story yet," Harry moans. He shifts forward a bit, letting his head rest in his hands.

"He's saddling me with a trainee. Figures since I'm 'Head Auror' I should be able to 'have patience with someone less experienced' and 'teach them the ropes' and all that jazz.' Ron lets out a low whistle.

"Putting you on babysitting duty then? Nice."

"That's not the worst part."

"Oh yeah?" Ron scoots the chair a little closer, eager to hear the goings on of the department. Harry has to repress a chuckle at how excited his friend became at the prospect of gossip; Ron was worse than most of the women that worked in the ministry.

"Yeah. Turns out the reason I get him is because none of the Deputy Aurors want him. So far everyone he's been partnered with has stormed into Kingsley's office demanding someone else." Harry pours out a shot for himself, and knocks it back in one smooth motion. He offers some to Ron, but the ginger declines.

"Did Kingsley say why?"

"Supposedly, this guy's good. Really good. And he knows it. If he and the Deputy Auror he's assigned to disagree, he sticks to his position and refuses to change it. Most of the time he's right."

"Hmn," Ron ponders, leaning back into his chair. "Isn't that a good thing? I think I'd want to be partnered with someone like that."

"Yeah. The problem is, the fully trained aurors aren't real big on having trainee's tell them where to stick it. And according to Kingsley, that's pretty much what this guy does. Loudly. And Publicly. Often." Ron snorts as Harry pours himself another glass.

"Sounds like you two ought to get on just fantastic, eh?" Harry groans as he let his head slip to his desk.

"That's not the worst part."

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but the slamming of the solid office door into the wall cuts him off rather succintly. Ron swivels around in his chair as a lanky figure storms through the room, coming to a stop in front of Harry's desk and slamming his hands pointedly on the wood suface. His shoulder-length blonde hair obscures his face as he leans in menacingly, but given that particular shade of platinum Ron can hazard a guess as to who it might be.

"Potter, you ruddy, inconsiderate sloth," comes a low hiss, not loud enough to hear in the office over but intimidating enough to make even Harry flinch. "You better get your ass up and out from behind your blasted desk this instant. Kingsley wants to see us immediately, and," the intruder pauses as he shoots a glance at the bottle of firewhisky sitting on the Head Auror's desk.

"Your dumb luck better hold out, because if the Minister catches that alcohol on your breath it's going to be both our necks, and if I get fired because of your stupidity you can guarantee the next five years of your life are going to be pure misery." Spinning on his heel, Draco Malfoy (now confirmed) makes to storm from the room. Catching sight of the youngest Weasley boy, he pauses in his step, issues a curt nod, and is on his way.

Ron watches the blast from his past stride down the hallway from whence it came, and turned back to Harry (who by now had slumped low in his chair and was pointedly not-looking-at-him)

"Let me guess..."

Harry downs his second shot.

"That was the worst part?"


	2. Exhaustion

**_Guinea - 2008_**

The suspect finally collapses on the wet ground, unable to struggle any longer. Dashing forward, Draco uses his smaller frame to weave through the debris and manages to slap the restraints around the smuggler's wrists. Harry swiftly casts the incantation to activate the portkey within the cuffs before the man gains his second wind. The suspect winks out of sight, now safely in the confines of the Ministry's holding cells, and Harry sinks to the ground himself, utterly exhausted. Since he had become Head Auror, everything had been cushy desk assignments or quick two to four day spells of field work in the surrounding area. This had been his first long-term task in some time, a two week tracking and apprehension of a massive supplier of the newest wizarding drug craze. The suspect, Terrance Kipling, had been giving the Deputy Aurors the run around for months. Once the drug started making its way into muggle communities, Kingsley decided it was time for the Head Auror to step in. It had been awhile since he'd had a job like this. Come to think of it… Harry finds his gaze drifting over to his new partner.

Covered from head to toe in sweat and mud, Draco Malfoy stands with the back of his hand to his head, breathing heavily. It had been Malfoy's first big assignment, and Harry had to admit the man had been exceptionally professional about the whole thing. Granted, they still had a rather volatile working relationship; Kingsley was constantly calling out for repairs to their office, thanks to damages caused during their heated "case discussions." However, the Minister never complained. One way or another the two managed, somewhere within all the back and forthing and throwing points of view in the others face, to uncover whatever vital clue they were missing and wrap things up quickly.

As a matter of fact, they did so at a much higher rate than the rest of the partnerships, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion Kingsley was rather pleased. He figured a couple hundred of galleons for renovations every other week or so was a small price to pay. Their little “field-trip” had been no different. They were still at each others' throats, still spewing insults, and still managed to drag the correct conclusion from out of a murky mess of heavily debated false leads. Yet, not once had Malfoy complained about the job. On Harry's first huge assignment as a trainee, he had been wet, filthy, and tired. To this day, he's surprised Deputy Auror Sherling hadn't just knocked him out to stop his whining. He figured Malfoy, with his lavish upbringing, would spend every waking moment cursing the job and vowing to never set foot in the field again. But Malfoy never said a word about the crappy conditions. Instead, when they trekked through a thick, gnarled forest, covered with insects, so they wouldn't set off the alerts the perp had set on the path, Malfoy complained about Harry's clothes.

_Honestly, Potter. You're Head Auror. You could at least afford some decent travel clothes. I have to be seen with you._

When they slept in the filthy, pigeon-stool covered loft of a barn, to avoid the attention they would gather at an inn, Malfoy complained about Harry's hair.

_Honestly, Potter. Have you even tried combing it? I was talking to a bird's nest last night, because in the dark it looked exactly like your head._

Even now, mud-splattered, blood pounding, and exhausted, he'd probably-

_"Honestly, Potter. You need some smaller frames. It's creepy, the way those things magnify your bloody eyes." Harry cracks a smile, and Draco raises his brow._

"What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking you were due for a disparaging remark right about now," Harry laughs breathlessly. Draco smirks in turn, picking his way through the mud slowly as he walks towards his partner.

"Ooh, big word. Learn it from Granger?" Harry just rolls his eyes as he stands up, not bothering to correct Malfoy any longer. Hermione had officially become a Weasley over a decade ago, but Malfoy insisted there were so many already, the world hardly needed another "Weasel." Harry merely groans as he stretches, bones cracking and resettling.

"We need to make our way back to the Ministry, preferably before those idiots in Processing release our fugitive." That was one of the few things that Harry and Draco would always agree on. The Processing Department handled incoming prisoners, wizards awaiting trial, etc., as well as all of the paperwork involved. As far as the Head Auror and his partner were concerned, they were also bumbling, incompetent fools.

"I suppose you're right," Draco sighs, coming to a stop beside Harry. He wips his hand across his eye once more, and Harry gets a good look at the unfocused pupils and the heavy bags beneath them. He quickly sweeps his gaze across his partner. Draco's usually proud shoulders are sagging heavily, and the mud caking his body can no longer hide the fatigue weighing down his muscles. Then there are the usual bumps, scrapes, and lacerations an auror gets on the job. Malfoy has a rather prominent cut above his left eye, which explains why he keeps rubbing at it. Fighting the urge to reach out and grabs Draco's wrist (to keep the cut from getting infected, of course. There was no way Harry was going to let Draco get out of the ensuing paper work hell for this case just because he caught something nasty through a cut), Harry figures he looks a similar sight himself, what with that tumble into the thickets during the chase, and suddenly his own exhaustion seems much more prominent than before.

"Are you alright to apparate?" he queries, more than ready to get home and wash the accumulating dirt and sweat off, but not wanting to risk his partner splinching himself due to fatigue. Draco looks insulted for a moment, but as he opens his mouth to retort his features softened, and he seems to reassess his answer.

"No… no, I don't think so…" Malfoy looks away, ashamed to admit his exhaustion.

"That's fine. I'll Side-Along you." Draco hesitates, before grudgingly taking Harry's waiting hand.

"Tell no one." Harry assumes it was supposed to come across as a threatening growl, but in Malfoy's current state it seemed almost like a plea.

"Promise," Harry sends back softly, gently coaxing the prideful Slytherin like one would approach a skittish horse. Harry can't quite place the expression suddenly flitting through Draco's eyes, but something in his tone must have been effective. Malfoy's hold relaxes, the tense bundle of muscle gripping Harry's wrist uncoiling into a delicate hand with long, dextrous fingers. Malfoy's hand settles lightly in Harry's palm, and the he takes a moment to marvel at the impossible softness of Draco's skin. Then with a crack, they disapparated.

Ears still ringing (he doubts he'll ever get used to that noise), Harry leans his weary body against the papered wall of Grimmauld Place. Draco blinks a few times, then rounds on the Gryffindor. "Where the hell are we, Potter?" he hisses, pinning Harry to the wall. Harry is disappointed to note Malfoy is still at least an inch taller than him. "Relax, we're at my place," Harry sighs, ducking under Malfoy's arm. "I just thought you might appreciate a shower or something before we went back to the Ministry." Draco's glare doesn't soften. "Bollocks, Potter. Why are we really here?" Harry rolls his eyes, starting up the central staircase. "Fine. I want a shower. Maybe even a quick two minute kipper on my couch. If you think you're well enough to apparate, by all means, splinch yourself in my foyer." With that, Harry steps off onto the second floor landing and made a break for his bathroom, not looking back.

As the hot water runs down his aching muscles, relaxing his tendons, Harry feels the guilt begin to creep up on him. He can't shake the picture of Malfoy, drowning in sagging, muddy clothes, standing around in his living room looking lost. Giving a half-hearted sigh of resignation, Harry washes up quickly, throws on a clean pair of jeans, and heads back downstairs. He is greeted with the same sight he had left with; Draco is awkwardly shuffling about, looking thoroughly out of place and alone in a house that really, Harry recalls, should have belonged to him in the first place. A fresh pang of guilt stabs at somewhere in his lower gut. "Here," he calls, tossing Malfoy a towel. "Bathroom's up the stairs, third door on the right. I'll have Kreacher set out some clothes." Draco seems bewildered for a moment, then murmurs a hushed "Thanks," and dashes up the staircase. Plopping down onto his couch as he hears the water begin to run, Harry moans as the cushions relieved him of his weight. They were so soft, and clean, and even warm…

Harry shakes his head as he pulls himself back to consciousness. As good as a nap really does sound, Kingsley would have his head. He eyes the barren fireplace, and gathers enough strength to cast a quick Incendio at the logs. The heat was instant, and Harry finds the cold and rain and mud of the past seven days melting away like a hazy memory. Only one thing could make this moment more perfect, but he's technically still on the clock. He settles down into the heavenly extra-squishy couch (one of George's few legitimate gifts last Christmas season) and waits for Draco to finish. The minutes ticked by, then an hour, and Harry began to wonder what could be taking Draco so long. The sound of the first few raindrops of an approaching rainstorm pattering against the window reached his ears, and the thoughts of mud, grimy hotels, and intense battles began to creep slowly back. 'Ah, screw it.' Harry gives in and calls for Kreacher, instructing the old elf to bring him a bottle of Ogden's and a large, cozy mug in place of the usual small shot glass. As he hears the running water from upstairs finally come to a halt, and the soft padding of bare feet on the carpet, Harry calls the house elf back.

"Might as well make that two."


	3. Confusion

**_London - 2011_ **

_Clink._

Harry wearily lifts his head up from the desk, suspiciously eyeing the new bottle of Ogden's Finest now resting innocently on the corner.

"You look like you need one," Draco offers, swiveling back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk.

The two (now full-fledged) aurors had finally developed a somewhat consistent working relationship. The ranting and railing of Head Auror Potter and Deputy Auror Malfoy over a case could still be heard from the atrium floor, and provided ample gossip at tea time. Now, though, they had a budding respect for each other as partners. Harry would always follow Malfoy's diplomatic, slightly manipulative example when came to dealing with problematic public figures (although he would never tell Draco to his face), Draco would always exchange polite nods with Auror Weasley when they passed each other in the hallway (though you would never hear him admit it), and Kingsley only had to replace their office twice a month or so (he was rather pleased about that). Although at least one of them still ended up in the medical wing on a near daily basis plagued with various petty jinxes and creative maladies, courtesy of the other partner and a well-timed Wizarding Wheezes product, the two had begun to grow accustomed to each other's presence.

"I'm working, Malfoy," Harry groans, running one hand over his stubbled jaw.

"Really? It looked to me like you were trying to drown yourself in your paperwork." Suddenly seeming hopeful, Harry looks down at his desk.

"Do you think that'd actually work? Come over here, hold my head under." Draco bites back a laugh. If there had been one thing Potter had surprised him with, and there had been many, it had been the Golden Boy's self-deprecating sense of humor. He settles for rolling his eyes, and reaches for his own paper work. Frowning, he skims through the stack. He usually keeps most of the paper work to himself, preferring to see to it personally that every "t" was crossed and every "i" dotted. Nearly everything for the past week is on his desk, aside from two small stacks he had delegated to Potter and his horrible handwriting. Draco eyes the Head Aurors desk; it's covered in scattered papers and official looking documents. Whatever Potter is doing isn't ministry business. So, naturally, Draco decides to distract him and cast a quick, non-verbal accio.

Harry only has a few milliseconds of warning between hearing "What are you working on?" and having the papers beneath his elbow magically snatched away. Draco ignores the demands of "Malfoy, seriously, give those back!" and peruses the contents of the paper from the safety of his own desk. By the time Harry scrambles out of his chair, slips on the paperwork littering the floor, and makes it to the other side of the room, Draco already has a firm grasp on the paper's contents. He levels a flat gaze at Harry, and the man in question flinches, waiting for whatever rude remark Malfoy is getting ready to make. Waiting. And waiting. After a silence stretches just long enough to make Harry's leg begin bouncing nervously, Draco finally opens his mouth to speak. Harry steels his nerves, determined not to cause any more damage to their floor this month.

"Are you getting custody of the kids?"

"Look, you can just-... what? " Harry stammers, not expecting that question. Malfoy studies his face quietly, trying to convey as much genuine concern as possible. After all, he'd been in the same position only a few years ago (granted, with a great deal less children to manage, but he understood well enough).

"I... I'm not sure, I- I mean I don't... really know. I want them, Merlin, I do… but she's their mother. Don't the courts normally put them with the mothers?" the room is quiet again, and Harry shifts uncomfortably.

"Do you have a lawyer?"

"No… not yet… I've been meaning to, but there's been so much paperwork from her lawyer, and the courts, to fill out, I haven't-..."

"I know a guy," Draco cuts off the other man's rambling. "Old friend of the family."

Malfoy pulls the latest case file towards him, and just like that the conversation is over. Harry walks back to his desk, still reeling and slightly shell-shocked. Malfoy had just offered Harry his personal lawyer.

He reaches for the bottle and pulls it towards him.


	4. Conversation

_**London - 2013** _

Opening the door of his office, Draco is startled to find the wood knocking quietly against a pair of brown loafers. Interest piqued, he silently peers around the doorframe and bites back a laugh. At some point during the day, Harry must have divested himself of the tight, constricting shoes ("monstrosities" that Harry had complained to him about _at length_ ) and proceeded to go about his business sock-clad. 

Currently, Harry is kneeling by the fireplace with an Ogden's at his side as he speaks into the floo.

"I understand Al, but that's a really dangerous hex. I know you want to stand up for your friends, but whether or not they were threatening him makes no difference. If you had miscast only slightly, and Headmistress McGonagall hadn't gotten there as quick as she had, those students could have died." Draco, listening from the door of their office, hears a muffled voice say something that sounds suspiciously like, "yeah, but they didn't."  Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, rocking back on his feet. For Harry's sake, Draco is glad for the limited view afforded by the fireplace. It sounds like an old fashioned lecturing is on its way, and Draco imagines its effect would be greatly ruined were Albus able to see his father's gently mussed hair and childishly socked feet, tapping a nervous beat on the squishy rug.

"Al, please," Draco's attention is drawn back to the conversation at had when Harry sighs, pleading with his middle son. "You have to be careful. People are just waiting for you to mess up. The moment you and your friends were placed into Slytherin, you were made a target." Draco hears the boy begin to protest, but his father cuts him off.

"I know it's not fair, and it's not right, but that's the way it is Al. And I understand your need to protect them, really I do, but you just can't use curses like that and not expect repercussions." Unconsciously, Draco rubs at the fading scars across his chest, trying to ignore the way Harry's voice thickens with regret. The young Potterling might mistake the vocal change as concern over the school's disciplinary action, but Draco knows that means Harry's “word's of wisdom” stem from a far more personal experience. Briefly, he wonders what sort of repercussions Harry faced, entertaining the selfish thought that their little scrap in the bathroom that night left a deeper impression on the young wizard than Draco realized. He pulls from his thoughts as more murmuring issued from the floo, this time sounding apologetic.

"I know, Al. Look, I'll… I'll talk to the Headmistress, as well as those other boys' parents, and see if I can't work something out. In the meantime, just… just be cautious. Please." Harry's shoulders relax as the voice seems to agree.

"Oh, and Albus? If anyone does try to start something again," Draco can picture the child in question rolling his eyes in preparation for the usual platitudes of 'just ignore them,' or 'tell a professor.'

"Do try and stick to the standard jinxes and hexes. And you can never go wrong with a well-timed Weasley's product. 'Best served cold' and what not." Albus Potter splutters in shock as his "Golden Boy" father sends him a sly wink and ends the connection. Harry stretches as he stands up with a sigh, taking a healthy swig of the firewhisky now grasped in his hand. Draco laughs softly as he moves further into the room, letting his presence be known.

"Trouble with the 'Problem Child?'"

"Oh hush, you." Harry playfully chucks a case file at his partner's head. Draco catches and sets it on his desk.

He pokes fun at the media frenzy surrounding the Potter family's middle son, but to tell the truth he is rather fond of the young Slytherin. Harry, being the paragon of Hogwart's Unity that he is, had ended up with one kid in each house (well, not officially yet, but Draco was certain Harry's youngest boy, Sirius, was a shoo in for Hufflepuff next year). The few times he had met Albus (when Harry would, every so often, bring one of his children into the office), Draco had been impressed by the boy's reserved nature. Al had spoken little, and whenever he did speak it was always something worth saying. His posture was straight-backed and relaxed, and his tone serious yet amicable. The boy's mannerisms were such that, if Draco hadn't known any better, he would have thought the boy was raised as a conventional pureblood. As a matter of fact, had he been blessed with a girl, Draco would not have minded arranging a traditional marriage into the family.

Albus was the near opposite of Harry, but out of all of the three Potter boys he seemed to have the closest relationship with his father. Having inherited the Chosen One's looks, there had always been a stigma looming over the boy's head, the world pressuring him to follow in the Potter patriarch's footsteps. Still, after the initial frustration and misplaced anger with his father had subsided, he had chosen not to emulate the Great Harry Potter, and was instead forging his own, less forgiving path. Draco watched Harry stand back and support the boy discreetly from the sidelines; Albus was the type to flatly reject any obvious assistance from his father. So, Harry kept exactly how proud he was of his middle son to himself, though Draco saw him glow whenever he spoke about Al's latest bout of getting himself into trouble.

'That at least,' Draco ponders, watching Harry sort his desk back out, place the bottle of Ogden's on the corner, and settle down in his chair. 'Is the same between the two.' The partners work in silence for a while, the scratching of quills on parchment and the crackling of the fireplace filling the room.

"So," Draco offers, after stewing about in his own curiosity. "What did he do?" Groaning, Harry puts down his quill and places his head in his hands. Then, despite the gravity of the trouble Al was facing, he begins to laugh. Across the room, Malfoy lifts a brow.

"He stumbled upon a Prefect and a couple of other older students touching and harassing one of his housemates. So, he a cast a hex that lacerated their testicles from their bodies." Draco lets out a high bark of laughter as the Head Auror dissolves into giggles.

"It's… it's not… funny!" Harry gasps between breaths, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Regaining his composure, he continues.

"If Al's concentration had been off just a bit, the spell could have gone wild and severed a vital part of those boys' bodies." A smile quirks playfully at the edge of Draco's lips.

"Oh, come now, Potter. I'd say those are pretty vital, wouldn't you agree?" Malfoy finishes it off with a leer, raising and waggling his eyebrows, watching with barely concealed glee as Harry blushes violently and gulps down the rest of his firewhisky. The ringing laughter from the Head Auror's office that day can be heard clear down the hall, and Auror Weasley's mouth twists up in a knowing grin.


	5. Celebration

**_London - 2014_ **

"And finally, with the highest case-to-catch ratio in the department, this year's Excellence award goes to Head Auror Potter and Deputy Auror Malfoy!"

The lobby of the auror department bursts into applause as the Minister hands the trophy over to the expectant Draco Malfoy (who, in turn is prodding Harry painfully in the back, hissing at him to "Stop cowering behind me, stand up straight, and go out and make nice with your public!").  

"Now, all of you, go back to work and catch me some damn criminals," Kingsley yells good-naturedly, shuffling all of the aurors back to their cubicles. With one last hearty pat on the back from Ron, Harry finally finds himself safely back within the confines of his office. He pulls his tie from its knot, gasping for air, and let the ends hang loosely about his shoulders as he pops the first few buttons on his collar. He wipes his brow and removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He will never get used to being in the spotlight, and he can't stand the looks of adulation from his co-workers when really, he was just doing the same thing everyone was: his job.

"Loosen up, Potter. It wasn't that bad." Harry blinks as a vaguely familiar looking fuzzy shape hovers in front of his face. Frowning, Harry replaces his glasses to find Malfoy holding out a bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky.

"What, no champagne?" Harry teases, mockingly raising his pinky in what he hopes is a pose that conveys a posh, snooty air (or at least a mockery of it). Draco smirks to match Harry's, and nodded.

"I figured you would prefer this. However, if you'd rather not, I can go fetch a more... traditional celebratory drink." Draco begins to withdraw his hand, but Harry leaps at him, deftly snatching away the bottle. The Draco clicks his teeth patronizingly.

"Tsk, tsk, Potter. Drinking on the job, and as Head Auror no less. How scandalous!" Draco shimmies his hips playfully and Harry laughs, nudging Malfoy aside with his own hip. Before his partner can shove him back, Harry swiftly leaps over the back of the old couch in the corner with a flourish and lounges across the old-fashioned leather, courtesy of Malfoy's more "distinguished" tastes.

"What are you gonna do about it, huh? Tattle on me to Kingsley?" Harry teases back, enjoying the banter that was now a comfortable routine.

"Hmn, I don't know…" Malfoy drawls, slinking over and taking a seat on the far arm of the couch.

"After all, you did just receive a major award from the Minister. Something like this could ruin your carefully crafted reputation as the Ministry's little prodigy. Then who would I have to work with? Someone who actually follows the rules, and combs his hair?" Draco lets out a yelp, followed by a muffled thump, as Harry kicks ("Oh come on," Harry would complain a week later, as Draco milks the deep blue bruise on his hipbone for all it's worth. "It was barely even a gentle nudge.") Malfoy off his perch.

"Wanker," Draco groans, pulling himself from the floor. He flops back down onto the couch, right atop Harry's outstretched legs.

"Oi, watch it," Harry complains playfully, not really minding the extra weight. After all, Draco isn't that heavy, and they had been through this song and dance a few times before. The Slytherin issues a noncommittal huff and reaches for his own bottle. Harry wiggles around bit until he managed to get comfortable, stretching out his torso and reclining with his hands beneath his head. Draco settles just behind Harry's extended legs, slotting his knees comfortably over Potter's own and crossing his ankles. They sit in amicable silence for a while, content to nurse their drinks and take a breather from the hustle of the day's work.

"I know what I want." Harry is startled from his thoughts, and looks up at his suddenly serious companion.

"For what?"

"For not telling Kingsley about…" Draco gestures about vaguely with the bottle.

"Oh?" Harry chuckles, curious enough to humor him. "And what would that be?"

Without warning, there is a slender hand pushing against his chest and soft lips pressing against his own. Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry registers the sound of breaking glass as his drink falls. He pays no attention, focusing instead on the unexpectantly _brilliant_ ball of warmth uncoiling in his lower stomach, and as pink flesh moves gently against his mouth, Harry can't think, can't breathe. After a few (far too brief) seconds, the heavy warmth lying along his body begins to pull away, and a pink tongue laps almost apologetically at his bottom lip.

Draco sits upright, fidgeting in his seat, with his mouth moving way too fast (and _too far away_ ) and Harry's sure he's missing something _important_ , but from the moment he felt Draco's lean body lying full across his own, his mind had lost all concept of _words_ and _speech_ and _say something, damnit_. He snaps back into his body just as Draco stands up.

"Just… think about it." And then the room is empty. Harry lies  on the couch a bit longer, heart pounding and lips tingling. He shifts, setting one palm where Draco's had lain on his chest. His own hand feels cumbersome and awkward. He licks his lips, and his tongue feels too rough, too dry.

'Huh,' he thinks with a wry smile as he returns to his lounging position, hands tucked comfortably back under his head. He closes his eyes with a contented hum.

The firewhisky lies forgotten on the floor.


End file.
